


Blackfyre

by AgentJoanneMills



Series: Blackfyre Universe [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - A Song of Ice and Fire, Alternate Universe - Crossover, Alternate Universe - Game of Thrones Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F, Family, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, G!p Lexa, I WAS SUPPOSED TO WORK ON THAT OTHER ASOIAF THING I HAVE GOING ON, I mean, Lexa's Dick, Marriage, TWO EPILOGUES FOR Y'ALL, Ugh, also manage your expectations this is a fookin' mess, apparently not a bloody one shot wtf i have no self-control, fUCK ME, i have no idea how this came to be, kbye, many clexa sexa, not literally tho, okay not "many" but a reasonable amount of clexa sexa
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-20 13:16:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8250421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentJoanneMills/pseuds/AgentJoanneMills
Summary: Lexa of House Targaryen was betrothed to Clarke of House Connington, as part of an agreement struck when the dragonlords were still negotiating alliances.It turns out to be a very fruitful marriage.(Alternatively: another ASOIAF-Clexa fusion)





	1. I. Blackfyre

**Author's Note:**

> *Recognizable elements belong to their respective owners.  
> **Work of fanfiction. No copyright infringement intended.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa learned how to reach the highest peaks by losing herself in women from Pentos, from Yunkai, from Astapor, from Meereen, and women from Volantis and Tyrosh and Braavos—for whoever could resist falling into bed with the dragonlord who had a Dothraki cock?

 

Lexa has never before forgotten the lessons her mother taught her when they were still stuck in Essos.

“We are dragons, Alexandria,” Daenerys Targaryen had told her more than once, “and dragons _consume_.”

That is a fact as sure as the sun rising in the east and setting in the west, a fact that shows just how the remaining Targaryens have successfully reclaimed their birthright as rulers of the Seven Kingdoms.

That is a fact that Lexa is having a hard time remembering now, along with her own damn name.

For spread out on the bed of silk sheets and rose petals is her wife.

Clarke of Griffin’s Roost smiles at Lexa brazenly, her lips bruised from their kisses, her blue eyes bright with mischief. Her breasts are proudly on display—and oh, what a magnificent pair they are, no doubt a blessing from the gods themselves—and Lexa cannot help but swallow the lump that has formed in her throat.

 _Get a grip, Alexandria_ , she thinks, shaking her head in a daze. _You are a dragon, and dragons do not balk before something as ridiculous as the mere act of_ bedding _._

And yet that is exactly what she is doing.

She is frozen by the door of their bedchamber, her breathing going harsh and heavy, and she feels her trousers growing tighter the longer she regards her wife.

 _Her wife_.

The thought of being Clarke’s anything, it seems, makes Lexa’s cock even harder.

The reaction she seems to always have for her bride is a peculiar one, Lexa supposes. After all, she _has_ grown up exposed to countless beautiful women. As soon as she was old enough to understand what made her different—aside from the fact that she _is_ blood of the dragon—Lexa was taught what to do with her body to take her pleasure.    

She was given a horselord’s daughter as an instructor of sorts, teaching her the art of lovemaking and its completion. Costia was the first woman Lexa stuck her cock into, but she certainly wasn’t the last. Lexa learned how to reach the highest peaks by losing herself in women from Pentos, from Yunkai, from Astapor, from Meereen, and women from Volantis and Tyrosh and Braavos—for whoever could resist falling into bed with the dragonlord who had a Dothraki cock?    

And then the Targaryens finally returned to Westeros.

They discovered another Targaryen in the North. As Daenerys’s nephew and Lexa’s cousin, Jon Snow fulfilled the role of the third dragonrider, and atop Skydance, Drogon, and Greyfyre, they fought and won the Wight War. They turned Casterly Rock and Storm’s End to rubble and ash, and the Westerlands and the Stormlands were indefinitely subdued.

The Silver Queen riding the fire-breathing beast of her family’s sigil was welcomed as the saviour and was hailed the rightful ruler. She legitimized her brother’s son as Jahaerys Targaryen, and as per their family’s tradition, she made him her consort.

Lexa, the queen’s firstborn and heir, was then betrothed to Clarke of House Connington, as part of an agreement struck when the dragonlords were still negotiating alliances. Ser Barristan Selmy told Daenerys how Prince Rhaegar had favoured Jon Connington in the old days, and how the latter’s House was stripped of their titles and was relegated to knighthood when the Usurper came to power, as punishment for their loyalty to the former.

Daenerys, in honour of her brother’s esteem, then decided to restore his friend’s family to their past nobility, and even went so far as to name the new Lord Jakob Connington as the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, which was thereafter called Griffinfort. She also saw it fit to complete this unification by marrying the two Houses.

And so Lexa climbed Drogon and flew to Griffin’s Roost, where she was received by Lord Jakob and his wife, Lady Abigail, and where she saw her intended for the first time.

And Clarke robbed her of breath.

Lexa always thought her own mother to be the most beautiful woman alive, what with her classic Valyrian features, all silver hair and lilac eyes. And yet Lexa found herself speechless before her bride of the pale skin and golden hair and blue eyes, who was smirking at her with an audaciousness she’d never encountered before, not even in the pillow houses of Lys or the plains of the Dothraki.

“You’re the one who is to be my wife,” Lexa said, stupidly stating the obvious.

Clarke’s smirk merely deepened. “You’re the one who is to be _mine_ ,” she shot back, and with the way her voice coated the word . . . well.

Lexa became completely hers.

That was moons ago, before Lexa took Clarke to Dragonstone.

Now, with their wedding night here at last, it’s all Lexa could do to hold onto her sanity.

Clarke is still looking at her with lidded eyes, and when she licks her lips, Lexa decides to _finally_ get on with it.

She undoes the buttons of her shirt and the laces holding up her trousers, and her hard length springs up proud and tall. Clarke bites her lower lip at the sight, her blue eyes shimmering with unadulterated lust.

Lexa smiles; it is the same half-smile she has been told has made women’s knees tremble with want, and with the way Clarke’s gaze darkens—her pupils blown wide, drowning her blues almost completely—Lexa knows she’s made the right choice.

Lexa hears the catch in Clarke’s breathing in the quiet of their room, and she stalks forwards, as a dragon would when regarding its prey. She’s glad that she has now regained some semblance of control, looking over her naked, gorgeous wife.

Clarke’s curves are made to be worshipped, Lexa thinks as her fingertips skim over the skin of Clarke’s leg, leaving goose bumps in their wake.

“How do you like this, my dragonlord?” Clarke asks, her voice raspy with sin and wicked promise. She’s not a maid, of that Lexa is certain, and to her surprise, she does not particularly care. If anything, the thought of Clarke being experienced in this makes Lexa harden further—if that’s even possible.

“Spread yourself open for me, _wife_.”

Clarke complies without protest, watching her intently. Lexa then grips Clarke by the back of her thighs, pulling her right on the edge of the bed, smirking at Clarke’s adorable squeak of surprise. She sinks to her knees on the floor.

“I thought dragons don’t kneel for anyone,” Clarke manages to say, and Lexa is impressed that she still has her wits about her. Her Golden Griffin will make a wonderful consort, when the time comes.

“You’re not just anyone, Clarke,” Lexa answers, her voice a soft murmur. “You’re _mine_.” And without another word, Lexa takes her first taste of her wife.

For all the times Lexa has thought of doing this, she’s always been controlled and tender and slow. She wants their first night to be special, no matter how absurd the thought seems to be. She wants them to learn each other in a gentle pace, warmed by candlelight and lit by the moon.

And yet here they are, the hearth blazing stubbornly against the drafty room, the storm raging outside equaled only by the fire ignited within Lexa’s soul. She buries her mouth between her wife’s legs, and she is not merely tasting her, no—she’s feasting on her, as if she were a wanderer from the Red Waste and Clarke were the first meal she had after months of starvation.

She breathes in Clarke’s scent, nose buried in the soft tuft of golden hair, sucking and licking and letting her tongue probe as deep as it goes. Her fingers have found their way on the nub hidden above Clarke’s slit, and Clarke’s breathing is becoming more labored as the patterns Lexa draws grow faster and harder.

Clarke’s legs are quivering on Lexa’s shoulders, now, her own fingers entwining with Lexa’s brown hair. Her grip tightens to the point of discomfort, but Lexa relishes in it, a growl rumbling in her throat. Clarke gasps as the vibrations reach into her core, pulling at Lexa’s curls, and her hips shudder when Lexa’s teeth glances across her sensitive bud.

The sounds of Clarke’s release complete the perfect symphony in Lexa’s mind, punctuated by the claps of thunder and the crashing waves outside.

 

****

 

It isn’t until Clarke is nearly sobbing from coming one too many times in Lexa’s mouth that Lexa takes her own pleasure. Stroking into her with purposeful movements of her hips, Lexa sucks on one of Clarke’s breasts and cups the other. She likes it, being seated within Clarke up to her hilt, every inch buried in a heat so unlike the fires she has come to know.

 

Clarke is a fire that _burns_ her, and Lexa will gladly set herself aflame in the Seven Hells themselves if only to feel as alive as she does now.

 

****

 

“You _will_ spill your seed in me, dragonlord,” Clarke says—nay, _commands_ —against Lexa’s lips, and Lexa doesn’t have it in her to refuse her wife anything.

 

****

 

“You will give birth to dragons, my love,” Lexa says against Clarke’s temple, delighting in the shiver her words elicit, “and they shall take to the sky in glory and power unmatched.”

 

****

 

Clarke is tucked under Lexa’s chin, their limbs a messy tangle on the bed, the room long plunged into darkness but for the light of the moon.

“Before I met you,” Clarke whispers against sweat-slick skin, “I was afraid of this—of you . . . of being your wife.”

“Why is that?” Lexa asks. “You’re not some virgin anxious of the pain in losing her maidenhead.”

Clarke snorts a laugh, and Lexa is even more endeared. “It’s obviously not because of that.”

“Obviously.”

Clarke rolls over so that she’s half on top of Lexa, meeting the dragonlord’s green gaze. “Have you no idea what they say about you at all?” She sounds extremely amused, though a tad baffled.

“I don’t really care about what they say,” Lexa answers honestly. “I am their future queen, and I know I am more than capable of leading them well and ruling them justly, and that’s what matters, is it not?”

“Not if you want the realm to be at peace and to prosper,” Clarke says. “Fear was the cause of your grandfather’s ruin—at its core, at least. The accumulated fear he stirred from his people’s hearts led to accumulated hatred, and look where that ended.”

“So you’re saying I should listen and assuage their baseless fears.”

“I’m saying ruling over and caring about your subjects are two sides of the same coin—or should be, in any case.” Clarke shrugs. “Besides, they do not know it is baseless because you haven’t said anything to deny them, and you haven’t said anything because you’re not listening.”

“They didn’t warn me you’re this smart.” Lexa chuckles at Clarke’s mock-offended huff. “Well, I’m listening now. What do they say about me, then?”

“That you are the most powerful dragon to ever be born since Aegon the Conqueror, that you claimed lives in _fire and blood_ before you even fully understood that those were your family’s words. They say your father’s _khalasar_ never left your mother because of you—the Stallion Who Will Mount the World.” Clarke lays her head back on Lexa’s chest, listening to its steady beat. “They say you summoned the sword Blackfyre from the pits of Seven Hells and it was the gods themselves who delivered it to you.”

Lexa laughs quietly, threading her fingers on golden strands. Clarke sighs contentedly at the sensation. “I can’t speak for the dragons of centuries past, but according to my mother, that first one is true. It’s why Drogon chose me, she said, and it just so happened that he’s the one named after my father. The second one is only partially true, because half of his _khalasar_ did desert their _khaleesi_. It was only years later, when we returned to Vaes Dothrak, that I became that Stallion of the prophecy and unified all the _khalasar_ s of the Great Grass Sea.”

“And the third?”

“The third is not true at all. The people are giving me way too much credit with that.”

“So how did you come to wield Blackfyre, then? It was said to have been lost for generations.”

“Giving Blackfyre to a bastard was something my forebear shouldn’t have done,” Lexa says, shifting until Clarke is lying beneath her. “I simply rectified that mistake and took what’s rightfully mine.”

“But _how_?” Clarke insists, breathless, looking up at her with her pretty blue eyes.

The smile Lexa sends her is feral. “I tracked down the last of the Blackfyres, who are hiding their sorry arses in Norvos, and made of them a meal for Drogon.” She clicks her tongue. “He was not at all pleased with their flesh, though I suppose their exposure to the Norvoshi’s way of life had a hand with that.”

“Oh.”

“Did I scare you again?” she teases, running the tip of her nose on Clarke’s cheek.

“Not at all.” There’s an openness in her that Lexa wants to explore. “Quite the opposite, if I’m being honest.”

“Is that so.” Lexa hums, kissing her way down Clarke’s body, laughing at her hitching breath. “Do you have any more questions for me, my curious wife?”

“Would you have fed me to your dragon too?”

Lexa grins, pressing a kiss on Clarke’s inner thigh. She waits until Clarke meets her eyes. “No, I wouldn’t have,” she says. “I’d rather devour you for myself.” And lowering her mouth to her wife’s cunt, Lexa does just that.

 

 


	2. II. Seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re going to be parents,” Lexa breathes, tentative, as if saying the words any louder would shatter this dream.
> 
> “Hmmm,” is Clarke’s only reply, and she moves Lexa’s free hand to rest on her stomach, giggling when Lexa’s mouth opens, a look of marvel in her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who’s back  
> not my self-control, that’s for sure

 

Lexa is holed up in her study, reading through the stacks of missives sent from all over the realm in congratulations to her marriage. It has been more than a month since the ceremony, but Lexa has been avoiding this task because of the headache that is sure to follow.

And her wariness is not unwarranted, it turns out. To her immense irritation, most of the letters contain not-so-subtle digs as to how her mother could have made a better match and increased the Crown’s affluence tenfold in the process, and there are reminders of _liberalism_ in some parts of the Seven Kingdoms that would accept a more . . . _open_ arrangement, “if it pleases Your Grace.”

She scoffs, distaste clear on her face. Lexa threw those letters into the brazier, watching in satisfaction as the flames engulf their terrible, impudent words.

_As if I would ever stray from my wife, you insolent fools._

Lexa has half a mind to let Drogon terrorize those people idiotic enough to so much as suggest that Clarke is _anything_ less than she is. The mere insinuation makes her blood boil—Clarke is the perfect woman, and no one shall dare dishonor her so long as Lexa lives. If she had her grandfather’s temper and the infamous Targaryen madness, she surely would have already given in to her impulses and rained on them fire just to show how she dealt with disrespect.

These brooding thoughts are still in Lexa’s mind when a knock sounds on the door, and her knight’s voice calls out, “The Princess Clarke is here to see you, Your Grace.”

Shaking her head to clear it of mayhem and murder, Lexa says, “Come in.”

The sight of her wife is enough to make Lexa forget all her troubles at once, and a smile tugs on her lips. Clarke smiles at her too as she makes her way to Lexa’s desk.

She stands to meet her halfway, her hands automatically finding purchase on Clarke’s waist. She quickly bends to press a kiss to Clarke’s lips before Clarke could even say a word of greeting, and Lexa swallows the resulting laugh her enthusiasm induces from her wife. Clarke’s arms wrap around Lexa as she responds in kind to her kisses, and when they separate, they are both out of breath.

“Well,” Clarke begins, her voice enticingly husky, sending warmth to Lexa’s groin, stirring her cock awake, “hello to you too, Your Grace.”

Lexa noses the hair at Clarke’s temple, smelling storm and spring alike in the golden strands, clinging to her like perfume. “Hello,” she greets in earnest, and she drops another kiss on the curve of Clarke’s jaw. “Why are you here?”

Clarke chuckles. “What, can I not visit my dragonlord, to whom I am happily married, without an official reason?”

“You know I didn’t mean it that way. You are always welcome to me, my lady.” Lexa nips at her neck in retort, enjoying Clarke’s gasp. “But I also know you usually paint at this time of day and that you take your art very seriously, so deviations from that routine are unusual, to say the least.”

Clarke sighs a fond sound, and she cups Lexa’s nape to tug her to another long kiss. “I hate that you know me that well,” she mumbles, but the smile in her voice undermines her words.

“I’m sure you do.” Lexa grins, biting Clarke’s lower lip before finally putting some space between their faces. “Now, would you tell me what’s _really_ wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, I swear.” Clarke takes a deep breath then looks straight at Lexa’s eyes, steadfast. “In fact, nothing could be better.”

“Oh?”

“Yes.” Clarke blindly reaches for one of Lexa’s hands, not breaking their gaze, and she raises it up to her lips to kiss the scarred knuckles. “I’m with child, Your Grace.”

Lexa’s inhales sharply, and her green eyes searches her wife’s blue ones for any signs of jest.

There is none, unsurprisingly, because Clarke will never play with Lexa’s emotions like that.

“Are you . . . Are you certain?” Lexa asks, awe and hope clear in her tone.

Clarke nods. “I am. I’m fairly certain it’s from our wedding night too.” A corner of her mouth twists up in a teasing smirk. “Your dragon seeds quicken rather fast, don’t they?”

Her words, coupled with the way they are delivered, make Lexa tremble, and the dragonlord is helpless to yank her wife into a searing kiss, laughing at Clarke’s surprised huff, lacing their fingers together.

Clarke looks at her, eyes soft and indulgent, and Lexa wonders how she got so lucky. This—the tangibility of _family_ —this is something Lexa has always wanted for herself, and pure happiness threatens to split her heart apart.

There are worse ways to go, she supposes.

“We’re going to be parents,” Lexa breathes, tentative, as if saying the words any louder would shatter this dream.

“Hmmm,” is Clarke’s only reply, and she moves Lexa’s free hand to rest on her stomach, giggling when Lexa’s mouth opens, a look of marvel in her eyes.

Lexa can almost feel a spark igniting at her palm, and she swears her child’s spirit is reaching out to her already, new as its life is in Clarke’s womb. “We’re going to be parents,” she repeats, and she is no less dumbfounded than the first time. The words leave a sweet taste on her tongue, though, and she relishes in it.

“We’ve established that, yes,” Clarke tells her lightly, but a blush is coloring her cheeks, and Lexa knows the statement brings her immeasurable joy as well. “I have here your little prince or princess.”

“Perhaps both,” Lexa says with a hopeful grin, eyes radiant with childlike glee, and Clarke shakes her head in adoring exasperation.

“Greed doesn’t suit you, Your Grace.”

“Lexa.” Lexa winds her arm around Clarke, pressing them flush against each other, and her other hand cups Clarke’s cheek. “Call me by my name, _Clarke_. It’s yours to speak.”

“Lexa,” Clarke obeys, and her name falling from Clarke’s lips has become Lexa’s favourite sound in the world.

 

****

 

Lexa’s hand slides from hip to breast, Clarke’s nipple taut against her palm, callused from years of handling swords and quivers and the reins of her dragon.

She has carried Clarke to their bedchambers, to celebrate the life (“ _Lives_ , Clarke. I am confident we will be having more than one.” “You are going to be the death of me, Lexa.”) they made, and it’s been hours but neither of them is sated in the least.

Lexa braces herself over her (pregnant!) wife, the muscles in her arms burning pleasantly as she lowers her head to kiss her. Clarke’s hand is splayed on her lower back, her fingers raising goose bumps on Lexa’s skin.

Clarke’s eyes are hungry as they trace the tattoos on Lexa’s arms, the Essossi symbols flawlessly entwining with the Westerosi. “Have I ever told you how much I like seeing ink on your skin?”

Lexa smirks. “Once or twice.”

“It bears repeating.” Clarke sucks in a quick breath when Lexa catches her under her knee, pulling her leg up higher and opening her to her ravenous gaze. “Would you like me to have them as well?”

Lexa falters at that, and Clarke watches her in delight. “That will be acceptable,” she manages through her parched throat. Images of Clarke’s skin inked with swirls and lines of her ancestry are playing in her mind, taunting her, and she lets out a grumble.

Clarke finds that amusing, for some reason Lexa can’t fathom in her lust-addled brain. “Aren’t you a volatile little thing?” Clarke coos, and Lexa is torn between laughing and growling.

She settles for sliding her hand over Clarke’s inner thigh and up to her waiting center, where Lexa can feel her wet and hot. “Volatility is one of the characteristics for which we dragons are known, Clarke,” Lexa says, her fingers stroking and playing with Clarke’s cunt. “We savor the explosions, and we savor the heat.” To punctuate her point, she then slides a finger into Clarke, and she feels Clarke clench in time to the catch in her breath.

Clarke’s hands have come up to clutch Lexa’s shoulders, her hips grinding against Lexa’s palm in reckless abandon. “Rude,” she puffs, the effect lost in light of her pleasure.

“Is it?” Lexa queries innocently, though her hands are doing the furthest thing from innocent at the moment. She adds another finger, her thumb finding Clarke’s nub, her eyes following the line of Clarke’s neck as it arches, her head falling back on the pillow, a soft cry escaping her mouth.

Lexa likes hearing that cry. Very much so.

She slips down Clarke’s body with a grace born of years of perfecting the move, shouldering Clarke’s thighs apart. She waits until blue eyes lock on her again, before lapping at what her fingers have been exploring. Lexa’s smirk widens when her name is ripped off Clarke’s throat.

“Oh, _Lexa_.” It sounds like a prayer, and Lexa can’t help but feel amazed that this golden deity is calling her name like that—like she herself is divine.

It is heady, the power that comes from rendering divinity itself powerless.

It is a power she will happily spend her whole life wielding, if given half a chance.

With the way Clarke’s fingers have slid up Lexa’s brown hair, tugging at the loose waves almost harshly, Lexa is confident that that chance has come.

 

****

 

Whoever said that marriage tampers with matters of lust and desire obviously had no idea what they were talking about.

Or perhaps they’re simply not married to someone they love and thus were not fit to offer any opinion on the subject.

Whatever the case, Lexa thinks that they have it all wrong, and she pities them.

 

(It’s difficult to be entirely sympathetic with _anyone_ when she’s buried within her wife, though, Clarke’s whimpers loud in her ears and her breath a hot gust on Lexa’s skin.)

 

****

 

“Twins.” Lexa blinks up at Maester Samwell Tarly, who is awkwardly shuffling before her gaze. His arms are laden with scrolls and his nails are dirty with ink, and the chains in his neck signifying his status as archmaester rattle loudly in the quiet of her solar. “Clarke’s having twins.”

Maester Tarly’s head bobs quickly, and Lexa fears his head will topple off his neck any second. “She is, Your Grace. That is, I mean, _you_ _two_ are going to have twins.”

“Is there any way you’re wrong in this?”

“No, Your Grace. Not a chance.” Maester Tarly waddles his way to Lexa’s table, spreading his scrolls. “I’ve studied the rate at which the princess is growing, and my calculations have come to this singular answer. Two lives, Your Grace. Your wife will be giving birth to _two dragons_.”

Lexa’s heart soars. “Does Clarke already know?”

“The princess suspects.” Maester Tarly smiles conspiratorially. “And she’s been doubling her intake of fruits and sweetmints. I’m certain she has an inkling as to why her appetite’s growing way past the normal scale.”

Lexa nods, pleased, and she then stands. “Thank you for the news, Maester Tarly.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” He nods. “I assume you’d like to tell the princess this yourself?”

“Yes,” Lexa confirms. She’s already making her way to the door. She turns back. “You can send a raven to the capital to inform my mother and cousin.”

“With haste, Your Grace.” Maester Tarly bows. When he straightens back, Lexa is gone.

 

****

 

“Damn you and your seed,” Clarke mumbles when Lexa tells her the news. She’s lying on their bed, a mountain of pillows on her back. She swats Lexa’s hand away when she moves to touch her stomach. “No touching.”

“But Clarke,” Lexa complains, brows furrowing, her lips jutting in a pout that Clarke really cannot refuse.

“Ugh.” Clarke rolls her eyes, but she snatches Lexa’s hand, placing it on her swollen belly. “You’re such an idiot.”

Lexa hums happily, stroking her wife’s abdomen with a cheerful grin. “I managed to get you pregnant—on the first night, with _twins_ —so I’m pretty sure I’m no idiot.”

“Shut up. That’s not a measure of intelligence.”

“No, but it’s a measure of skill.” Lexa winks at her, barking an amused laugh at Clarke’s irritated groan. “You’re so beautiful, even when you’re mad.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Clarke mutters. Keeping back more laughter, Lexa schools her expression into a serious one. She knows Clarke’s irritability is a byproduct of her pregnancy, and she has learned to handle the Griffin’s bad moods through the months of their marriage.

“It seems so,” she allows, slowly withdrawing her hand. “And you must be tired now. I’ll let you rest, then, Clarke.”

Before she can fully retreat, though, Clarke catches her wrist and grasps it tight. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“I thought I will get nowhere?”

“Don’t act clever now, Lex.”

Lexa bites her lip at the nickname. This is the first time her wife called her that, and Clarke doesn’t even seem to notice the slip. “As you want, my love.”

Clarke’s eyes are shutting close, her sleepiness another thing that comes from pregnancy, and her voice is barely a whisper. “Sleep with me.”

Lexa, wholly dedicated to pleasing the mother of her children ( _children!_ ), of course listens and moves so that she is settled beside Clarke.

Clarke tucks herself comfortably on Lexa’s arm, and Lexa presses a kiss on top of her golden head.

“I love you, Lexa.”

Lexa freezes, before a grin blossoms wide on her face, and she breathes in that state between dreams and wakefulness, “I love you, Clarke.”

 

She does not see Clarke’s lips turn into an elated smile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> are you guys happy with this


	3. III. Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dragonstone has become a place of comfort, and Lexa cannot wait for its hallowed halls to be filled with her children’s laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> why do i keep doing this to myself

 

Ever since learning that Clarke is carrying twins, Lexa has been more attentive, more caring—a feat in and of itself, for Lexa’s devotion has always been absolute—and she hardly leaves Clarke alone. And should her presence be required for urgent matters, such as those concerning the realm—for nothing _less_ can ever make her leave her wife’s side, and even then, reluctance mars her every movement and every breath feels like it’s taken underwater, that is, until she comes back to her rightful place with Clarke in her arms—she makes sure to have Clarke watched over by someone she trusts.

Clarke’s well-being is Lexa’s topmost concern, and her protection is a duty that Lexa is more than willing to take on with an intensity normally reserved for battles and wars.

 

Suffice it to say that Lexa would sooner disregard the “fire and blood” of her lineage than let any harm befall her wife and their children.

 

****

 

Two weeks after Maester Tarly sent the ravens, the Silver Queen arrives in Dragonstone atop her dragon, Skydance, with a riderless Greyfyre following closely behind.

 

****

 

Skydance and Greyfyre fly overhead as they reunite with their brother Drogon, the three of them performing a dance of dragons far more pleasant and a lot less grim than the one described in the history books. Flames from their mouths illuminate the stormy sky, accentuated with flashes of lightning, casting the castle’s profile in sharp relief, and they fill the air with growls as loud as thunder.

“How is she?” Daenerys demands as soon as she sees her daughter, enveloping her in a hug that Lexa returns just as fiercely.

“She’s well, Mother,” Lexa answers, beaming. “She’s been sleeping more, but I suppose she’s going to be awake soon if my siblings continue making such disturbance.”

“You can hardly blame them. Drogon hasn’t been spending much time in the capital lately.” Daenerys chuckles as she releases her. “I assume it’s because he wants to be near your wife and the children she carries, so that he may be able to guard them. He was like that, after all, when I was pregnant with you.”

“Except he’s a lot bigger now and capable of a lot more damage, should it be needed.” Lexa stares at the three beasts before eyeing her mother thoughtfully. “But you did not ride all the way here to discuss Drogon’s protective tendencies, did you?”

“No.” Daenerys offers her a soft smile; her cheeks are still flush from her flight. “I’m here to see for myself the mother of my grandchildren.”

 

****

 

Targaryen custom dictates that Dragonstone be bequeathed to the heir of the reigning monarch, and so, it, for all intents and purposes, currently belongs to Lexa.

As such, it is not often that the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms herself graces Dragonstone with her presence. Her birthplace it might be, and her family’s ancestral seat of power, but the instances Queen Daenerys has been within its halls can be counted in a single hand.

It is no wonder, then, that Lexa’s household is ill prepared to receive their overlord, and if she were a little less distracted, Lexa would have spared a moment to laugh at their palpable anxiety.

Lexa leads her mother through corridors that she should have grown up in, their quick footsteps echoing in the cold stones.

She does not need the fire from the torches on their sconces to know her way, for in the months of living here Lexa has learned that Dragonstone really is _hers_ —a part of a treasured heritage. She has taken to learning its pathways and rooms as effortlessly as she has taken to the sword. She is as at ease walking in Aegon the Conqueror’s home as she is riding her dragon.

Dragonstone, simply put, has become a place of comfort, and Lexa cannot wait for its hallowed halls to be filled with her children’s laughter.

 

****

 

When they reach the bedchamber, they see that Clarke is indeed awake, looking out the window while Luna, a Riverland bastard whom Lexa knighted after the Sack of King’s Landing, watches her vigilantly.

Lexa nods at the knight, whose eyes widen a fraction when she realizes that her master is not alone.

“Your Grace.” Luna bows her head, courteous, though her stance is as alert as ever.

Clarke turns at the sound, expecting her wife. She opens her mouth to bid a greeting, but she breaks off upon seeing the queen looking at her, those unforgettable lilac eyes as steady as Lexa’s green. “Your Grace,” she says, and she immediately starts to curtsy, but Lexa’s arms wrap securely around her, stopping the movement.

“None of that now, Clarke,” she says, voice low and soft. “You shan’t be moving too much.”

“Lexa, it’s a curtsy, not a sprint,” Clarke argues, though she melts in her wife’s embrace. “I can’t disrespect the _queen_.”

The queen’s gaze softens when she sees how perfectly the two fit with each other. “You’re not disrespecting anyone, Lady Clarke.” She gestures to the chaise longue by the window. “And please, you should be sitting.”

Clarke finds herself unable to offer a response, taken aback in the turn her day has taken. She went to sleep earlier with Lexa beside her, and she woke up with roaring dragons outside her window.

Now, the queen is here, asking her to _please_ sit down.

And so she does.

Lexa sits beside her after dismissing Luna with a wave of her hand, and Clarke is left with two dragons who are gazing at her with identical looks of rapt attention. Silence permeates the room as the queen regards her, and it is only Lexa’s solid warmth that keeps her from feeling too nervous. Lexa’s fingers weave with her own, thumbing soothing patterns on her skin.

She clears her throat when the silence stretches on. “So, uhm, how are you, Your Grace?” she tries, and she shoots Lexa a glare when she has the gall to snicker at Clarke’s nervousness.

“Sorry,” Lexa murmurs, not sounding sorry in the least. Her eyes are sparkling green, and Clarke really wants to kiss her.

Now is probably not a good time for that, though.

The queen laughs. “I’m fine, thank you. Though I should be the one asking you that.”

“I’m well,” Clarke answers, truthfully. “Never better, really, Your Grace.”

“We’re way past the formality of court, don’t you think?” The queen shakes her head, affectionate, and Clarke has never seen this side of the ferocious ruler. “After all, you’re carrying my grandchildren.”

“It—Your Grace—”

“Daenerys,” the queen corrects, gently, and Clarke is reminded of Lexa doing the same thing, moons ago. “Away from the throne, Lady Clarke, I’m Daenerys. A mother, like you will be.”

“I—” She looks at Lexa, then, who offers her an encouraging smile before kissing her temple. She clears her throat again, turning back to the queen. “As you say.” She smiles. “And it’s just Clarke, Your Gr—Daenerys.”

Daenerys nods, satisfied. “As you say,” she returns. Her silver hair falls messily over her shoulders, but her smile is bright, and she looks her part in the stories—the cheerful, warm, and pure exile princess.

Clarke wonders if that is how Lexa has always seen her mother.

She hopes so, because the image of Lexa growing up with this version of the queen—the _not_ queen, as it turns out—is something precious, and a pang of longing erupts in her chest, wanting to have seen that for herself.

That is when she feels the kick.

“Oh,” she gasps, astonished. She turns to Lexa again, and she wordlessly guides her hand to her belly.

Lexa’s eyes are as wide as the moon. “Oh.” She beams, and she is as cheerful, warm, and pure as her mother, to whom she directs her gaze. “Mother, they’re _moving_.” Her tone is reverential, as if she just announced that Clarke’s womb is carrying _gods_.

And perhaps that’s how it really is.

Daenerys’s smile matches her daughter’s, and she looks at Clarke, an unspoken question swirling in soulful lilacs. There’s hope in her gaze, and Clarke almost laughs because it’s not _as if_ she would ever refuse the _queen_ the privilege of feeling her grandchildren move.

“Go on, Daenerys,” Clarke urges, and Daenerys is only happy to do so. Clarke feels her touch through the layers of cloth, hot as the Silver Queen’s skin is—hotter even than Lexa’s, whose dragon blood has been tempered with a stallion’s.

There’s another kick, as if the twins are calling to their grandmother’s touch. Daenerys releases a sound not unlike a hum the same time that Lexa exhales a happy sigh.

The two Targaryens are grinning like giddy children, and Clarke feels her heart fit to burst, delighted to have had a hand in bringing those smiles on their faces.

“They’re as lively as you were, Lexa,” Daenerys comments in lilting tones. “Once you started moving, you never stopped.”

Lexa huffs mock-haughtily. “I’m half-dragon, half-stallion, Mother. It’s only right that I move a lot.”

Daenerys chuckles, and she gives Clarke a kind look, though a bit of teasing is in there too. “I wish you good fortune in this, good-daughter. Rest whilst you still can, because I reckon a lot of sleepless nights are in your immediate future.”

 

****

 

They have never anticipated just how right the queen’s words of warning will be.

“Have I mentioned lately how much I hate you?” Clarke grouses. “Because I really, really do.” Her face is scrunched up in a frown, annoyance clear in her blue eyes.

Lexa has never been more in love. She grins, lifting her wife’s hands to her face and peppering them with kisses. “Sure you do,” she says, grin widening when Clarke’s frown deepens.

“Your children are moving too much! I can’t even have a peaceful night of sleep, Lexa, honestly, why can’t they be good little dragons and just be active in the afternoon, when I’m decidedly more awake?” Clarke’s gripe tapers off when she winces, feeling another budge in her stomach. “This is distinctly less fun than when _you_ kept me up at night!”

Lexa’s eyes widen, and a blush quickly creeps to her cheeks.

Clarke does not fail to notice this. She puffs a breath, unsure whether to laugh in amusement or cry in frustration. “Whose fault is it that we haven’t done _anything_ since we knew they’ll be twins?” she says instead, gently admonishing. “I’m this close to losing it here, Lexa.” She adds, “I _want_ you.”

“I can’t risk hurting you, Clarke,” Lexa says, brows furrowing, voice pleading. “I just—I can’t, you hear? You’re everything to me, and I can’t put you in any risk. I—you’re everything, Clarke.”

Clarke sighs, and she cups Lexa’s cheeks. “I love you,” she says. “I love you and I want you and this pregnancy is quite great because our family will grow bigger, and I get where you’re coming from because if the situation’s reversed, I would have probably done the same. But I just—I’m not made of glass, and I really _want_ you, Lexa.” She shifts, pressing their foreheads together, their noses lightly touching. “And I really love you.”

Lexa swallows, her lips brushing against Clarke’s. “I thought you hate me.”

“I can hate you while loving you.” Clarke grins, pressing a kiss on Lexa’s lower lip before sucking at it purposely.

Lexa groans, the sound drowned in Clarke’s mouth, and her control snaps. “Gods,” she says, “I fucking love you.” And before Clarke has a time to react, Lexa has lifted her in her arms. It is rather awkward, what with Clarke’s bump between them, but Lexa manages, her grip strong and sure.

Lexa carefully sets her down on the edge of their bed, wasting not a second to tug at the ties of Clarke’s robe and pulling it off her shoulders, letting it pool around Clarke’s hips. She gets on her knees, her eyes worshipping every inch of Clarke’s skin, before leaning forward and kissing her belly, dipping her sinful tongue in Clarke’s navel. Clarke shivers, her spine arching. Her fingers dig into the skin of Lexa’s shoulders, and Lexa hisses an exhale between her teeth.

The green of Lexa’s eyes is like wildfire, licking over every nook and cranny of Clarke’s soul, scorching everything in their wake. “You’re fucking beautiful, and I want to fuck you right now, but I’m going to devour you first.” And then Lexa brings Clarke’s hips to her mouth, and her tongue quickly finds Clarke’s clit, drawing over it in a steady rhythm that makes Clarke’s breathing erratic. Lexa works her tongue deeper and her mouth lower, and Clarke’s hands grasp on Lexa’s brown hair, and a growl rumbles in Lexa’s chest.

Clarke jolts when Lexa’s long finger slides into her without warning, curling just _so_ , finding that hidden spot within her that never fails to turn her into a gasping mess. Lexa retracts it, and Clarke doesn’t get a chance to whimper at the loss before Lexa plunges _two_ fingers into her, hitting her inner walls again and again and again, and Lexa continues to lap at her clit, her attentions never faltering.

Clarke comes when she catches sight of their reflection in the mirror on the corner of the room—her golden hair splayed out while Lexa’s dark head is buried between her thighs—and the pleasure rushed over her in an unrelenting wave, nearly splintering her in its intensity. Lexa doesn’t stop working on her, prolonging her ecstasy as much as possible, and when the last shudders break away, she is nothing but a boneless heap.

Lexa kisses both her knees before she rises up, standing over Clarke, a self-satisfied smile painted on her lips, wetness dripping down her chin. “Good?”

“Topnotch work,” Clarke says, chuckling. “We should do that again sometime.”

“Yes, we should,” Lexa agrees, leaning so that her arms bracket Clarke on the bed, hovering over her wife. The hardness of her brushes against Clarke’s thigh, making Clarke’s cunt clench with shameless yearning. “I want to taste you come again.”

A moan slips out from Clarke’s lips just as Lexa captures them hungrily. “Gods, Lexa,” she whines as she tastes herself on Lexa’s tongue.

“I can spend a lifetime with your legs around my head, and even then, I suspect it won’t be enough.” Lexa’s eyes are almost black, now, the beloved greens lost in lust. And yet there’s a gentleness that vows to never hurt her, and Clarke believes it.

 

****

 

“We have to decide on their names, soon,” Clarke says, as she and Lexa break their fast.

Lexa stills, her fork halfway to her mouth. Her eyes have that same glint they always do when the subject of their children is brought up. She sets the fork down, turning all her attention to her wife.

Not that her attention is on anything _other_ than her wife, these days.

“So we shall,” Lexa concurs. “What would you want them to be?”

Clarke scoffs around a bite. “It’s not about what I want. It’s about what _we_ want,” she says, rolling her eyes. “That’s how this marriage is going to work, Lex.”

Lexa stifles a laugh, nodding seriously. “As you say, Clarke.”

 

****

 

Clarke gives birth to a boy and a girl.

 

Lexa’s life will never be the same again.

 

****

 

“I told you it’s both,” Lexa says. Clarke’s gold hair is matted to her forehead, and she is exhausted, and yet to Lexa, she has never looked more resplendent. “A prince and a princess, my pride and joy.”

Clarke’s lips turn up in a smile though her eyelids droop low in her fatigue. “Don’t be so smug. I did the work here.”

“Yes, you did, and you did it so admirably.” She tucks a golden strand behind Clarke’s ear and brushes her knuckles across Clarke’s cheek. “You’re perfect.”

“And so are the prince and princess, Your Grace,” Maester Tarly says, as two nurses approach the bed, swaddles of blankets in their arms.

The blankets release shrill cries, and oh—Lexa gulps—it’s the _children_.

_Their children._

“Would you like to hold them, Your Grace?” a nurse asks, and Lexa freezes, before she hears Clarke giggling softly.

“Go on, then, Your Grace,” Clarke says, and Lexa is vaguely aware that Clarke is teasing her.

She merely nods, and two bundles are then deposited on her arms, and Lexa just silently stares down at them, too awed, too overwhelmed, to do anything more.

They are so tiny, almost weightless.

Blackfyre weighs more than the both of them combined, Lexa absently notes.

“Are you comparing our children to a sword, Your Grace?” comes Clarke’s voice, tinged with amusement, and Lexa looks up, not realizing that she has spoken out loud.

“I—well, no, not really.” There’s a pause. “Blackfyre’s heavier than them _both_ , Clarke, are we sure they’re all right?”

Maester Tarly coughs, hiding a chuckle, and even the nurses purse their lips to keep from smiling. “They are, Your Grace,” he assures. “They’re perfectly fine. Healthy as can be, we’re certain.”

“No complications?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Absolutely certain?”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Lexa nods. “Good. If anything bad were to happen to them, I would be sending you back to the Wall myself, Maester, regardless of what my cousin says.” Lexa delivers the threat with grave solemnity despite her voice being soft as she is looking back at her children, who have quieted down, staring up at their sire with curious eyes, even though newborns are normally a bit blind, at first.

The poor maester coughs again, visibly blanching. “I understand, Your Grace,” he all but yelps.

Clarke laughs, albeit wearily. “Thank you, Maester,” she says, winking at the man who seems to want to get out of the room at once, and she waves a hand, a clear dismissal which he and the two nurses take quite gladly. She eyes her wife. “No need to frighten Lord Jahaerys’s good friend, Lexa.”

Lexa’s acknowledgment is a simple hum. “Their names?” she asks instead.

They have narrowed down their list of names to four, each of which they liked in equal measure, and Lexa has bidden Clarke to be the one to settle everything, when the time comes.

Clarke grins. “Well”—she motions to the one on Lexa’s right, a boy with the silver wisps of the Targaryen rulers of eons past and the green eyes of the Stallion Who Mounts the World—“that one is Jacaerys.”

“Jacaerys.” It’s the perfect name, for the son Lexa never was, the son with the Targaryen hair and the Dothraki eyes.

“And that one”—Clarke gestures to the girl on Lexa’s left, who has a tuft of brown hair and her eyes the exact shade of cerulean as her mother’s—“is Rhaena.”

The babe reaches a tiny hand up, fingers clumsily tugging at one of Lexa’s braids. “Hello, Rhaena.” Lexa’s eyes find her wife’s, and she asks, “Are you sure you want only Targaryen names for them, though?”

“Hmm.” Clarke nods, and drowsiness seeps into her again. “The world has too few dragons, Lexa. I figure these two can help with that.”

Lexa smothers a laugh, careful not to jostle her children. “You’re unbelievable, Clarke.”

“I know.” Clarke’s eyes are closed, now, losing their battle with slumber. “Now shut up and let me sleep.”

Lexa waits until Clarke’s breathing evens out before standing and settling their children beside their mother. She then reclaims her former position on the chair by Clarke’s bed, tangling their hands together.

 

She falls asleep staring at the family she has made, a smile never leaving her lips.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh whatever  
> you get whatcha pay for, folks


	4. IV. Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She has her wife, and they have their son and daughter, and nothing could ever be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah, keep encouraging my lack of self-control, you guys  
> smh  
> honestly pls stop me

 

The Princess of Dragonstone is in the Chamber of the Painted Table, looking over the detailed map of the realm she will inherit, sitting atop the very place Aegon the Conqueror himself sat on whilst planning the invasion of Westeros. With her Valyrian-steel crown hanging low over her brow and the red-trimmed black silk elegantly draped across her shoulders, she cuts a very striking figure, every bit the dragonlord Aegon had been.

And the scene would have been absolutely terrifying, with the flashes of lightning casting menacing shadows across the sculpted planes of her face, were it not for the babe comfortably seated on her lap.

He is a curious boy, this son of theirs, always watching everything with quiet intelligence—and Lexa _just_ knows he will be a fantastic scholar, when he’s grown, if the rate at which he is learning is anything to go by.

 

After all, he nearly killed them all with shock when he spoke his first word.

 

****

 

That had been an interesting day.

Jacaerys and Rhaena were turning eight moons old, and Lexa had been finally worn down by her mother to visit the capital and perhaps discuss the possibility of moving her family into their lawful home in Maegor’s Holdfast before the twins reach their first name day.

“I wish to properly meet my grandchildren, Alexandria,” Queen Daenerys wrote. “And it is only right that they spend their early lives at the court where they will rule in the future.”

Lexa had sent a raven with her response; she would be going to the Red Keep with Drogon within a day and would mayhap stay there for a week, nothing more. This would be the first time Lexa and Clarke would be spending any amount of time apart, since the twins were born, and they were both—naturally—hesitant about the whole affair.

They were standing on one of the Stone Drum’s terraces, the grey steam emitted by Dragonmont providing some warmth against the cold breeze. Maester Tarly was there cradling the children, standing on the side to provide their parents some privacy. Drogon, waiting for his rider, was perched high on Windwyrm’s spine.

“Don’t be long,” Clarke said, proud of the way her voice didn’t waver, and yet her eyes were shining with tears unshed.

(Lexa heard the unspoken words— _I’ll be waiting. Be safe. Come home to me._

 _I love you._ )

“I promise,” Lexa answered, resting her forehead against Clarke’s.

(Clarke heard the unspoken words— _I’ll miss you every second. Please take care. Wait for me._

 _I love you._ )

Lexa curled a hand on Clarke’s nape and tugged her in for a kiss. When she pulled away, they were both breathless, and a lot more reluctant to part.

The children’s cries compelled them to do so, however, and Maester Tarly sent them an apologetic smile as he struggled to keep the twins from tumbling down, trying as they were to break free of his hold.

Rhaena was especially spirited, her blue eyes darting every which way as she was evidently enchanted with Dragonstone’s architecture—its towers, built from pure black stones, were wrought into the shape of dragons—and she babbled jovially as her arms flailed in an attempt to reach the stone beasts. She shrieked with exhilaration when Drogon roared his approval, coming down to hover over them.

Clarke chuckled wetly, shaking her head, and she took Rhaena from the maester. Lexa bent down to kiss the top of their daughter’s head, and then she turned to Jacaerys and moved to do the same, but she froze and swallowed hard.

He was looking attentively at his sire, his green eyes so similar to hers, and Lexa couldn’t help but feel as if she’s looking deep into her own self whenever she met his gaze. And yet she knew that was not the case at all—for Jacaerys’s eyes had in them a softness that Lexa had lost long ago, a sense of wonder that she had forgotten existed until the day she met her wife.

His silver hair was unruly against the gusts of steam, and there’s a frown on his little face, as if he understood what was happening and didn’t like it in the least.

“I’ll be seeing you again soon, son,” Lexa murmured, tenderly brushing his hair off the side. “Don’t grow up too fast without me.” Then she kissed his forehead, and when she leaned back, he reached out and his stubby fingers caught the red scarf wound around her neck.

And then he said: “ _Muña._ ”

Lexa’s heart thumped hard in her chest, and she looked up to her companions to determine if she was just imagining things. Clarke’s blue eyes were filled with a confused sort of surprise, and Maester Tarly’s mouth was opened wide, making him look comically like a fish, and Lexa knew that her son _really_ did just speak out loud.

“I—He—” Lexa stuttered, quite disbelieving of this development. Her son just spoke his _first_ word, and it’s . . . it’s _everything_.

“Wait,” Clarke said, furrowing her eyebrows as she tried to make sense of the bizarre reaction the child incited in both her wife and the maester, “that is an _actual_ word?”

Lexa merely gawked at her with stunned silence, her green eyes shining with love and amazement, and it was Maester Tarly who finally choked out, looking down at Jacaerys in his arms, “Yes. That’s . . . That’s Old Valyrian, Your Grace. The little prince just spoke Old Valyrian.”

At that Clarke laughed, delighted, the sound filled with pride and affection, and she laughed some more when Rhaena laughed cheerfully along with her. She shifted her arms to allow their daughter to claim her mother’s cheek with her small palm. “What did he say?”

Lexa cleared her throat, and when she answered, her voice was hoarse. “‘Mother,’” she said, staring at the boy who was still staring back at her. “He said ‘mother.’”

 

****

 

(When she returned, a week later, he said the word again, and it was as sweet to Lexa’s ears as it was the first time.)

 

****

 

(Days afterwards, it was Rhaena who then surprised them when she stopped Clarke from getting out of the nursery by yelling, “Mama!”)

 

****

 

The raised seat in the Chamber of the Painted Table is situated precisely where Dragonstone is on the more-than-fifty-foot-long map, and it grants its occupant an unobstructed view of the depicted realm. Lexa thinks that perhaps this gave Aegon the encouragement he needed as he settled on his strategies and lines of attack—a proper visual of the lands he would conquer from his own ancestral home. A wonderful incentive, if there ever was one.

Jacaerys is looking over the map as well, content in his position with his mother’s protective arms around him to keep him from falling. A child this young ought not to look as serious as he does, Lexa supposes, but it just feels right, all things considered.

He _is_ , after all, blood of the dragon, and he is here surveying his kingdom. His eyes fixate on the Crownlands, especially taken with the carved replica of the Red Keep that she herself commissioned after the war. He lifts his arms, his fingers grabbing air, signaling that he wants to play with the castle.

Lexa chuckles in amusement, noting how he throws his weight forwards to achieve his goal. “You will get to play in the real one soon, Jacaerys,” she tells him with no small amount of fondness in her tone. “You’re going to rule over it all, and you will be king, as your sister will be queen.”

He stops at the sound of her voice, and he looks up, his green eyes wide, before grinning toothlessly and mumbling an unintelligible sound that might have been agreement. A silver strand has managed to flop across his eye again, and Lexa sweeps it away with a finger, which Jacaerys then catches and doesn’t let go.

Lexa’s lips quirk up, wiggling the caught finger playfully, loving Jacaerys’s pleased gurgles. He has been stringing together syllables that sound gibberish to others but which Lexa knows to be the beginning of an Old Valyrian vocabulary, and he has called her _mu_ _ña_ a grand total of thirteen times.

Clarke finds it endlessly amusing that she’s keeping count _._

(“That’s adorable, Lex,” Clarke teased, eyes twinkling with humour.

Lexa scowled. “Dragons are not adorable, Clarke,” she grumbled.

“Tell that to your children,” Clarke retorted, looking pointedly at the twins snuggled in their crib, drool on the corner of their mouths.

And, _fine_ , Lexa thought, _Clarke might be right_ , as the scowl she was so intent on wearing fell away at the sight, her lips trying and failing to keep her grin in check.

 

 _Maybe_ dragons could be adorable too.)

 

****

 

It still feels surreal, sometimes.

She’s been married to Clarke for more than a year, and their children are nearing their first name day, and yet, the fire Clarke ignites within her soul burns as bright as it did that first night.

_Perhaps even brighter._

The very fact that they have children (“Young dragons,” as the maids keep on referring to the twins) still sounds like news to Lexa, and that _Clarke_ gave birth to them— _their children!—_ is something that Lexa will always think of as the greatest gift the gods could have ever blessed her with.

She has her wife, and they have their son and daughter, and nothing could ever be better.

It is as if her heart has tripled in size, to accommodate properly and wholly _loving_ the three most important people in her life right now, but even that is not enough, it seems, for she can almost feel the seams of her soul bursting, overflowing as it is with pure, unadulterated happiness.

 

****

 

“What are you thinking about?” Clarke asks, genuinely curious, when she catches Lexa watching her so intently.

They are lying on their bed, just enjoying each other’s company, having been treated to a rare night alone; the twins spent themselves earlier playing with the new toys that have arrived from House Velaryon, and the rest of their household is busy with the last-minute preparations for their transfer to the Red Keep in the morrow.

“How fortunate I am that the gods deemed me worthy to be your spouse, my love,” Lexa answers guilelessly, her eyes bright.

Clarke’s cheeks flush, and she hides it, burying her face in the crook of Lexa’s neck. “Lexa,” she near-sighs, but the syllables are coated with affection, with adoration, and with everything Lexa herself feels for her.

“Clarke,” she returns, deliberately rolling the _r_ and clicking the _k_ , knowing that it drives her wife insane.

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Sincerity bleeds in her tone.

Clarke groans at that, as if wounded, and Lexa starts to worry that she has been offended, somehow, when Clarke suddenly claims her lips in a ravenous kiss, pressing into her with a fervor she is only too happy to return. She swings one leg over Lexa’s body and settles down over her hips, Lexa’s hands sliding up to her waist at once.

Lexa sucks Clarke’s lower lip, nibbling on it and then soothing it with her tongue. Her hands move of their own accord, undoing the laces of Clarke’s shift and pushing it off her shoulders, before cupping her breasts.

Clarke gasps into Lexa’s mouth, and she _tastes_ the dragonlord’s smirk. In retaliation, she rocks her hips forcefully over hers, grinning smugly when Lexa’s cock twitches and hardens even more beneath her.

Clarke knows she is wet, and trousers or no, she also knows Lexa feels that wetness. She moves again, tormenting her further, and when she pulls back, she sees that Lexa’s eyes are _dark_ and _heated_ and _hungry_.

A low growl comes from Lexa’s throat, and her grip on Clarke’s waist tightens, grinding Clarke against her, and Clarke whimpers at the delicious friction that creates. Clarke reaches down to unsheathe her wife, clumsily undoing the ties of her trousers, and Lexa moans when Clarke’s hand finally wraps around her cock. She suckles on Clarke’s neck, right on the spot where Clarke’s pulse is quickly beating. She hisses a breath as Clarke guides her into wet heat, and her growl now is louder, more dangerous, as Clarke rides her as she would ride a stallion—quick, hard, focused.

Clarke is tight and wet and _hers_ , and no matter how many times they do this, it always takes Lexa’s breath away.

She suspects it always will.

Clarke’s hands scramble for purchase before settling on Lexa’s nape, her fingers tangling with brown curls. “Oh,” she breathes, pressing her forehead to Lexa’s, and Lexa gives her an almost-chaste kiss before leaning and taking Clarke’s breast into her mouth, one after the other.

Their bodies are covered with a thin sheen of sweat, the sound of their basest pleasures echoing against Dragonstone’s black walls, moans and groans of carnal cravings and wanton encouragements passed from breath to breath.

Clarke shudders when Lexa changes the angle, repeatedly hitting that sweet spot inside of her. She clenches around Lexa, and Lexa’s fingers dig into the curve of Clarke’s hips. She moves faster, now, taking Lexa deeper every time she drops back and enfolds Lexa’s proud hardness, and their rhythm gets more frenzied when Lexa bites on the junction where Clarke’s neck and shoulder meet.

Clarke quivers, Lexa’s name a delicious, breathy gasp torn from her lips—a sound that Lexa will gladly drink in for the rest of her life, should Clarke grant her the honour of doing so.

 

****

 

“Clarke?”

“Hmm?”

“Did you know that Jahaerys I Targaryen had thirteen children with the Good Queen Alysanne?”

“No, I did not.” Clarke turns in her arms, eyes bleary with sleep and that self-satisfaction that only comes from hours of making love, but she manages to send her wife a questioning look.

“Well, now you do,” Lexa says, trying for nonchalance, but she knows Clarke sees right through her.

She always does.

Clarke thoughtfully regards her, then, and there’s a good-natured huff. “I sincerely hope by the old gods and the new that you’re telling me this _only_ for the history lesson.” An undercurrent of exasperation and amusement flows from her words.

When all she gets in answer is a guilty silence, she lets out a giggle, shaking her head. “ _Lexa._ ”

Lexa refuses to meet her gaze, instead staring at the ceiling. “I’m not saying I want that many—well, all right, maybe I _do_ ,” she tells the dragons carved into the stone, “but it’s not like we’re just going to—I am obviously very happy with the twins, and I could never hope for better children because Jacaerys and Rhaena are perfect, and I love them with every fibre of my being, and I just—you know what, forget I said anything, this is stupid, I shouldn’t have—”

Her rambling is cut off when Clarke laughingly kisses her, and Lexa nearly forgets her train of thought.

When Clarke leans back, her blue eyes seem to hold all the stars in their depths, robbing Lexa of her breath with their splendor. “I don’t know how many children I _can_ actually carry, but I’m not opposed to trying, if that’s something you’re amenable to.”

Lexa is still reeling from the kiss that she does not immediately process what has been said. When she does, the joy reflected in her green eyes is too much for Clarke to handle, and she is helpless to pull the dragonlord into her again.

“Really?” Lexa asks, between kisses, her overwhelming hope and adoration making her voice tremble, and Clarke can’t do anything but nod in response.

“Yes, sure, Lexa,” she murmurs against soft brown hair, “whatever you want.”

“But Clarke,” Lexa says, stopping to look at her, suddenly serious, tucking an errant blond strand behind Clarke’s ear, “it’s not just about what I want, remember? Our marriage should be about what we both want, you said—and I’m not forcing you into anything, all right? You’re not—You’re not a broodmare, do you understand?” Lexa swallows, and Clarke sees that she is being honest and true—she always is—and Lexa has _never_ given her reason to think otherwise, anyway.

Lexa continues, “As I said, I’m happy with our twins. I will give up the world for them—for you. I-I’m not asking you to sacrifice your body to carry more children, or anything of the sort. It’s just that, well, I would really like it if our family grows some more, you know? I mean, the four of us now is perfect, obviously—which I’ve already pointed out a few times now, I realize, but I just—”

“Lexa,” Clarke cuts her off again, this time lovingly cupping her cheek, “it’s not like it’s a terrible burden to carry your children.” She says this so plainly and without artifice, as if the statement is a _fact_ that shan’t be questioned at all.

And with the way Clarke is looking at her, Lexa believes it to be so.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> don’t look at me ok you asked for this shit


	5. V. Always

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Gods,” Lexa murmurs, resting her forehead on Clarke’s, bumping their noses together, “I will never let you go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here ya fookin’ go

 

At times, Lexa thinks that marriage itself is not enough of an institution to completely describe and safeguard what Clarke means to her.

Yes, they married with vows spoken to all the gods and all the realm, but Lexa finds them lacking the guarantee she _craves_ —the guarantee that for the rest of her days, her heart will beat in time with Clarke’s, the guarantee that she would never have to live a second without Clarke.

Perhaps, when the time comes for her to meet the Stranger, the Many-Faced God, or R’hllor himself, she’ll finally understand why it feels like her soul is inexplicably entwined with Clarke’s, why it seems like she doesn’t need to breathe because Clarke herself is her air.

 

Or perhaps, Lexa supposes, looking at her wife’s sleeping face, she wouldn’t have to understand the _why_ at all in order to accept that they are just meant to be.

 

****

 

Queen Daenerys, pleased that her daughter at last “saw reason and moved back” to the Red Keep, has ordered a feast in her grandchildren’s honour.

(“There will be a tourney too,” she said, “for their first name day.”

“Let it be known that the Dragon Queen’s kin will be welcomed into the capital with the glory they deserve,” Tyrion, Hand of the Queen, said, lifting his goblet in a salute.)

Lexa fondly watches as her mother cradles Rhaena, the babe listening intently as the queen chats with Jahaerys, who has Jacaerys on his lap. Missandei seems to almost vibrate with animation, unsure which twin to dote on first, and Lexa remembers the early days when Missandei used to tame her brown curls and put them into the braids she favours even now.

Clarke is talking to her friends in court who are seated a couple of tables away. She hasn’t seen them since the royal wedding, and Lexa hears promises of catching up when things finally settle.

Then Clarke is walking towards Lexa, and the smile on her face will always be the light in Lexa’s life.

Lexa pulls out the chair to her left, and Clarke murmurs a thanks as she sits down. The lemon cake she left on her plate earlier is still there, and Clarke excitedly eyes it.

“They tried to take that away,” Lexa informs her with a soft smile, “but I defended it for you.”

“Always my hero.”

“I’m whatever you need me to be, my love.”

There’s a beat, and then, “I just need you to be mine.” There’s a fervency in Clarke’s eyes now, betraying the light and teasing tone she used.

“Always,” Lexa promises, before then leaning in and claiming Clarke’s lips, heedless of the eyes watching them.

 

****

 

It is late at night when they finally stumble into bed, and Clarke is attacking Lexa’s neck like the griffin that she is, kissing and sucking and licking, and Lexa is rendered weak. She ends up on her back in a bed of soft blankets with Clarke’s arms braced beside her hips, Clarke’s eager eyes burning up her skin.

Clarke bends forwards, nosing the noticeable outline of Lexa’s cock, her breath hot through Lexa’s trousers as she hardened even more.

Lexa grips the sheets harshly, and she grits out, “What do you want, Clarke?”

Clarke presses a kiss on the bulging erection, and she looked up at Lexa with eyes gleaming with sin. “This.”

“It’s yours,” Lexa says. “ _I’m_ yours.”

“I know.” Clarke smiles, enigmatically, and her tongue darts out to wet her lips. “I want you in my mouth, Lexa,” she then declares, and Lexa is pretty sure she stopped breathing.

“I—” Lexa chokes on air, and she gulps, meeting Clarke’s steady gaze. And Clarke’s blue eyes are so compelling, so captivating, that all Lexa can do is nod and submit to their will. “All right.”

Clarke grins, then, and her fingers make quick work of the laces and buttons of Lexa’s trousers, before carefully freeing Lexa’s cock.

Lexa takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, steeling herself for the wet heat of Clarke’s mouth, but it is to no avail. She jolts forcefully when Clarke pulls her in with practised ease, the suction she provides hungry and needy and frenzied.

Clarke strokes her, too, her touch tender and teasing, and when Lexa looks down, the sight that greets her is nearly enough to get her undone.

Clarke’s perfect mouth around her cock is something that Lexa will never forget, and the way Clarke is focusing on pleasuring _her_ is at the same time blazingly wicked and touchingly tender.

Lexa’s head falls back as she feels herself tense, and she resists the urge to fuck Clarke’s mouth, letting her wife take what she wanted at the pace she wanted it instead.

It’s the sweetest torture, but Clarke has always been, and will always be, worth it.

When the pleasure becomes unbearable, Lexa warns through her ragged breath, “I won’t be finishing like this.” Clarke merely raises an eyebrow in challenge, her tongue playful against Lexa’s skin. “I want my seed deep within you, Clarke. _Inside_ _you_.”

At that Clarke moans, the reverberations a pure torment to Lexa’s self-control, and she pulls back, her lips plump and red and wet. “Now, Lexa,” she demands, and Lexa does not need to be told twice.

She pulls Clarke up into her arms and takes that sinful mouth in lush kiss, her tongue licking deep. She tugs at Clarke’s dress, ripping the cloth, and slipping it off her shoulders in a smooth move, before flipping them over.

Clarke barely has time to react before she is being lifted and turned, a pillow put beneath her so that her ass is in the air. Lexa’s hands are on Clarke’s hips, and her thumbs swipe up in warning before she’s gliding into Clarke in a long, slow slide. 

Clarke rasps into the bed, feeling every inch of Lexa pressing into every inch of her. “Gods, Lexa, you’re so hard.”

She can hear the smirk in Lexa’s voice and feels it when Lexa presses a kiss on her spine. “Always for you, my love.” Lexa rolls her hips, pushing so deep inside then that Clarke twitches, arching her back helplessly, not certain whether she wants to get away or come closer and instead ending up grinding hard against Lexa, meeting the forceful thrusts.

“Don’t—oh, don’t stop,” Clarke pleads.

“How about,” Lexa starts in that tone of voice that makes Clarke’s toes curl in delight, “I’ll tire out when you do?”

Clarke laughs, and the sound is the wellspring of Lexa’s own happiness.

“You have yourself a deal, Your Grace.”

 

****

 

Lexa’s presence is wanted in the small council chamber, to discuss the logistics of the coming tourney and how she wants it to be.

“You’re invited to join us,” Lexa tells Clarke—or the bundle in the middle of their bed that is Clarke. She is still refusing to get up. “That tourney is for you too. Besides, when the time comes, you’ll have your proper place in the council. Now is as good a time as any to observe.”

Clarke scoffs, sinking deeper into the sheets. Amusement colours her tone, muffled though her words are. “I don’t think so. It’s too early, Lexa.”

Lexa sighs, though it sounds more like a laugh. “Clarke, come on.”

“Ugh.” Clarke throws the sheets off her and glares at Lexa.

Or _tries_ to glare. The snipe at the tip of tongue dies out when she sees her wife, standing at the foot of their bed.

Lexa’s hair is falling in soft waves over one shoulder, and her red sash is in sharp contrast with the white tunic she chose to wear. Her arms are bare, proudly displaying the exquisite tattoos winding on her skin.

And Clarke wants her.

The wave of pure _yearning_ that hits Clarke right then is overpowering, and she groans, pulling herself up so that she’s kneeling on the bed.

“This is so unfair,” she grumbles, scowling at Lexa.

Lexa blinks, lost. “What?”

“You!” Clarke says, gesturing at Lexa’s entire being. “Why are you like this? It’s so early and yet you’re still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

Lexa flushes, shifting on her feet. “ _Clarke_.”

Clarke huffs. “Even your voice is gods-damn perfect,” she mutters, and then she’s surging forwards, almost leaping into Lexa, who cages her in her arms in an instinctive gesture. “I love you,” she says, peppering Lexa’s face with kisses, and Lexa is getting whiplash from the speed at which Clarke’s mood shifts.

Not that she’s complaining, though, when she tastes the sweetness that is Clarke on her lips.

 

****

 

“You make me so fucking hard.”

“And you make me so fucking wet.” Clarke nips at Lexa’s bottom lip. “Now what are you going to do about it?”

 

****

 

“You tore my tunic.”

“Ah, but your sash is safe. That should count for something, right?”

“Yes, but now I’m going to have to find something to wear again.”

“You know,” Clarke says, as Lexa walks around their room, trying desperately to look presentable again, “watching you actually cover that body up physically pains me.”

Lexa’s eyes snap up to hers, burning with green fire. “Don’t start something you can’t finish, Clarke.”

The grin Clarke sends her is impish. “Who says I can’t?”

 

****

 

It soon becomes apparent that Lexa won’t make it to the council that day.

 

****

 

Clarke’s face is tucked into Lexa’s neck, and Lexa is running a hand through Clarke’s hair.

“Lexa?”

“Hmm?”

“If I were to get pregnant again—”

“You will.”

Clarke shifts, looking at her with a raised eyebrow. “That’s not my point.”

“Yes, I know.” Lexa tilts her head, nuzzling Clarke’s cheek. “Carry on.”

“As I was saying, if I were to get pregnant again . . .”—Clarke drops her head back down, burying her face on Lexa’s neck—“do you think the queen would like to name the child?”

Lexa stills and is quiet for a long moment, before she’s moving, turning them over. She holds Clarke’s wrists into the bed with one hand, while the other is cupping her cheek.

Lexa is looking at her as if she were the Maiden of the Sevenside, worthy of worship and praise, and it makes Clarke’s heart want to leap out of her chest, want Lexa to hold it in her palms.

And then Lexa lowers her head, brushing her mouth over Clarke’s in a heartbreakingly soft kiss.

“Gods,” Lexa murmurs, resting her forehead on Clarke’s, bumping their noses together, “I will _never_ let you go.”

 

****

 

“You’re stuck with me. For the rest of your life. Does that bother you?”

“No.” Lexa’s reply is quick, certain. “And you?”

“Are you kidding?” Clarke laughs. “A whole lifetime will not be long enough to spend with you.”

 

****

 

“I’ll always be with you.”

Clarke’s lips curve, and she settles closer into Lexa’s warm body, drawing comfort from her steady breath gusting over the sweat-slick skin of Clarke’s back. “I love you too,” she murmurs, and they surrender to slumber, loose-limbed and content.

 


	6. Epilogue I: Legacy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alexandria I is Queen Clarke’s great and only love, and she is Alexandria I’s.
> 
> It was fact never refuted, never questioned, for anyone who had ever spent time with the two of them would have seen that their hearts beat as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoooo boy

 

 _I was but five summers old when my mother Alexandria took me to visit the Citadel, to see how I would fare amongst the rows upon rows and columns upon columns of books and scrolls detailing a thousand subjects and speculating a thousand more_ _._

_I have a hazy memory of being so entranced by everything around me, by the smell of ink drying on parchment, by the sound of quills scratching paper. So much knowledge, condensed into this single bastion of information. (My mother later told me that she almost couldn’t pry me away from the little nook I found for myself, nestled amidst records of our family’s great dynasty.)_

_I remember asking her why Aegon chose to conquer Westeros instead of remaining to live in peace in Dragonstone, and she smiled at me, then, amused._

_“We are dragons, Jacaerys,” she said, ruffling my hair with familiar tenderness, “and dragons consume.”_

_That had been the first lesson she taught me_ _—the first lesson she would teach all my siblings, as it turned out_ _—and it is the one lesson that has always rung true._

—Excerpt from the personal records of Jacaerys I Targaryen (the Gentle King)

Published in _The Ancient and Glorious Line of Dragons_ (Jack Woodson, 2015 GDE)

 

****

 

**THE THIRTEEN CHILDREN OF ALEXANDRIA I TARGARYEN, THE COMMANDER OF THE BLOOD, AND QUEEN CLARKE THE GOLDEN, ALL OF WHOM LIVED TO ADULTHOOD**

 

PRINCE JACAERYS and PRINCESS RHAENA

PRINCESS RHAENYRA         

PRINCESS ALAENA, PRINCE AERION, and PRINCE AEGON

PRINCE AEMON and PRINCE DAERON

PRINCE LUCERION, PRINCESS ALYSE, and PRINCESS SAERA

PRINCESS DAENA and PRINCE RHAEGAR

 

****

 

** PRINCE JACAERYS **

(silver of hair, green of eyes; rode the dragon Ashwynd)

It was only chance that made Jacaerys the heir, having come to the world a mere minute ahead of his twin, Rhaena. He had exhibited the makings of a great scholar at a young age, and he was thus tutored by the greatest maesters of the Citadel sent to the Red Keep. He was called the Gentle King; he inherited a full treasury and a secure leadership, and he put them to good use. He was known to heed his siblings’ advices to the best of his abilities whilst also managing not to offend his court.

 

** PRINCESS RHAENA **

(brown of hair, blue of eyes; rode the dragon Rhaegon)

Rhaena forsook tradition as Jacaerys’s bride in favour of becoming a warrior. She was as skilled with the paintbrush as she was with a sword, and tales had been told of how she liked “painting the ground crimson with her enemies’ blood.”

She sought Lord Jahaerys’s support to be fostered by his cousin Bran Stark in Castle Black. She aimed to strengthen the Wall. Through her sheer will and wit, she became first Lady Commander of the Night’s Watch[1], and she restored it to its former glory and opened its gates to women and men alike.

It was Rhaena who reformed the ancient institution. Criminals were not accepted within its ranks anymore; rather, the Night’s Watch became an elite military force concentrated in the North, and its Watchmen were trained to excellence so that they might be ready at the Crown’s command. Thus taking the black became synonymous to honour and high merit, instead of the disgrace that had been so long attached to it.

 

** PRINCESS RHAENYRA **

(gold of hair, lilac of eyes; rode the dragon Stormfyre)

Rhaenyra became Jacaerys’s wife in place of Rhaena, a choice that had been made by the three of them themselves when they were old enough to understand the duty that came with their lineage.

She was celebrated and well loved by many, even at an early age; when she was but seven summers old, she managed to sneak out of the Red Keep and join the loitering smallfolk, who were said to be so charmed by her that the thought of harming her never once crossed their minds. They even crowned her with a wreath of daisies and daffodils and dubbed her the People’s Princess, the image immortalized in Rhaena’s painting “Flower Child.”[2]

 

** PRINCESS ALAENA **

(silver of hair, blue of eyes; rode the dragon Silverfang)

Alaena frequently accompanied Rhaenyra in her excursions in the streets of King’s Landing. As gifted with the lyre as her siblings were with their swords, she was known to have played songs[3] to the smallfolk while Rhaenyra sang.

Alaena became wife to her brother Aerion.

 

** PRINCE AERION **

(brown of hair, green of eyes; rode the dragon Candor)

Aerion was a jovial man and was often playing tricks on his siblings, and even on their parents.

(Once, he spent a whole hour standing still in Queen Alexandria’s solar whilst wearing decorative armour, and when he finally moved, his mother yelled so loudly in surprise that the dragons sleeping on the courtyard woke up and thought there was an attack. The incident had been the talk of their household for more than a moon’s turn, and it was said that Queen Clarke found it so perpetually hilarious that it became the first funny story she told their eventual grandchildren, much to her wife’s chagrin.[4])

Aerion became husband to her sister Alaena. He served as King Jacaerys I’s Hand, a position he held excellently until he passed it on to his own son.

 

** PRINCE AEGON **

(silver of hair, blue of eyes; rode the dragon Lancer)

Aegon was as much a jester as his brother Aerion, but where Aerion had diplomacy, Aegon had admirable skills in the sword and the lance. He organised a sort of kingsguard for Jacaerys, and he called it the Dragonshield.[5]

 

** PRINCE AEMON **

(gold of hair, blue of eyes; rode the dragon Vermion)

Aemon followed his sister Rhaena’s footsteps and was sworn to the Night’s Watch, providing her counsel alongside Daeron, his twin. Aemon was born only seconds before Daeron, but those seconds were said to have made all the difference in their temperaments. He was loud where Daeron was quiet, and was reckless where he was thoughtful.

When Rhaena removed the vow to celibacy from the Watch’s oath, Aemon took it as invitation to spread their line in the North. He never married, but he fathered many bastards[6] and acknowledged all of them, and it was said that Aemon’s descendants came to populate the castles of the Night’s Watch to functioning condition.

 

** PRINCE DAERON  **

(gold of hair, blue of eyes; rode the dragon Veraxes)

At first, Daeron decided to go with Aemon to the Wall solely because he wanted to make sure Aemon won’t die by way of his own brashness. Later, though, he came to like the arrangement as well, even forging strong bonds with the Wall’s wildling occupants. The New Gift prospered under his guidance. He was called the Farmer Prince, for he himself did work on the land and tilled the soil.

 

** PRINCE LUCERION **

(brown of hair, green of eyes; rode the dragon Inferno)

Lucerion was wed to Maera Velaryon. He strengthened the naval forces of the Crownlands and came to serve as master of ships for several years, putting in efforts to creating a system[7] that consolidated the navies of the Seven Kingdoms.

 

** PRINCESS ALYSE **

(silver of hair, blue of eyes; rode the dragon North Star)

Alyse was good at fighting, taking after her mother Alexandria, from whom she also inherited the condition that allowed her to sire children. As skilled as she was in battle, however, it was writing that she loved doing the most. Her prose was said to have coaxed grown men to tears, and her odes to have made many a maiden fall in love.[8] She herself was devoted to Lyarra Stark, Warden of the North, and they wedded each other in the weirwood of Winterfell. She became known as the Fire Wolf, as the direwolves of her wife’s family came to be fond of her and took to guarding their children.

 

** PRINCESS SAERA **

(brown of hair, green of eyes; rode the dragon Herald)

Like her mother Clarke and her sister Rhaena, Saera was an accomplished painter, and it was at her behest that Queen Alexandria I decreed that an institution dedicated to the arts be established in the realm.[9] Saera wed her cousin Jakob, firstborn son of Aden Connington, Lord of Griffin’s Roost and younger brother to Queen Clarke.

 

** PRINCESS DAENA **

(silver of hair, lilac of eyes; rode the dragon Everglade)

A free spirit, Daena went to Essos to retrace her sire’s steps. She came to lead an army 30,000 strong, into the territories of Yi Ti, and established a strong trade system that will stand for hundreds of years. King Jacaerys I made her the Warden Across the Narrow Sea, in so doing creating the cadet branch of Targaryen of Dragon’s Bay.[10]

 

** PRINCE RHAEGAR **

(silver of hair, lilac of eyes; rode the dragon Moonstone)

Rhaegar was a scholar like his eldest brother, and he went to the Citadel to earn his ring and rod and mask. He served as an archmaester, and it was his suggestion that little institutes for erudition, similar to the Citadel in organisation, be established across the realm so that people wouldn’t have to travel so far south should they wish to learn.[11]

 

****

 

 _My mothers had a long and prosperous reign, and I can only endeavour to make certain that their legacy is not wasted. I know my brothers and sisters will stand beside me, as they always have. Our heritage is in our hands, now_ _—forged in fire and blood but strengthened by the peace that has been cultivated through the years_ _—and we will do our best to make our parents proud, to be worthy of their good name._

_Mama used to tell us that when she and Mother wedded, Mother promised her that she “will give birth to dragons . . . who will take to the sky in glory and power unmatched.”_

_My siblings and I will be honouring those words_ _—a goal we will continue to strive for until our last breath._

_Of that, the realm need not doubt._

 

—Excerpt from the personal records of Jacaerys I Targaryen (the Gentle King)

 

****

 

_Mother,_

_I’m glad Mama’s well. I will come and visit within a moon’s turn, should the construction of the new fort be done. (The progress is quicker than I expected, though, so I am confident it would be finished according to my timetable.) Please don’t let Mama eat all the pies Rhaenyra will have baked by then. I do miss her cooking very much, and I would like to get a taste after months of going without it. (Uncle Jahaerys warned me that the Night’s Watch can’t cook save for their soup, and honestly, that’s a severe understatement. I might need to bring one of our cooks with me when I return so I don’t die of starvation.)_

_If, gods forbid, I were to be late for Mama’s birthing, I depend on you to **not** let Jacaerys name our sibling(s). He has terrible tastes (Rhaenyra notwithstanding) and would probably just name them after some random lord he read about. I, however, have given this a lot of thought, and I would like to ask you to name one Lucerion and the other Saera. (Are we sure they’re only twins though? What if it was like with Aegon, Aerion, and Alaena? Mama sure was larger than she was when she carried Aemon and Daeron. If so, the names could be Alyse and Daena or Rhaegar and Aemond.) _

_(Please do **not** tell Mama I called her large either_ _—at least not after the birth. She might cry again, like she did when Uncle Aden told her she was getting soft, and I fear my hearing still hasn’t recovered from the screaming that ensued from that.)_

_I’ll be seeing you soon, Mother. Mess up Jacaerys’s collars for me._

_Rhaena Targaryen_

_Princess of the Seven Kingdoms_

 

—Letter from Princess Rhaena to Queen Alexandria, penned while she was being fostered by Lord Bran Stark in Castle Black

First published in _The Ancient and Glorious Line of Dragons_ (Jack Woodson, 2015 GDE)

****

_Rhaena,_

_I found your letter hidden in Mother’s desk._

_I swear to the Seven I will name the next ones._

 

_Jacaerys Targaryen_

_Prince of Dragonstone_

_(I told Mama about what you said. She is currently not pleased with Mother, so she’s been spending her time painting in my room.)_

****

 

_Jacaerys,_

_I am loath to be the bearer of bad news, ~~dear~~ brother, but I already extracted a promise from both our parents that they’ll be using the names I suggested last time should Mama become with child again._

_Rhaena Targaryen_

_Dragon of the Wall_

_(I HATE YOU, YOU TATTLETALE.)_

 

****

 

_Rhaena,_

_Did Jacaerys really almost name Ashwynd Shiver? That’s a **terrible** name for a dragon. Mama almost choked on her sweetmint when I asked her about it, she was laughing so hard._

_Aerion_

_Prince of the Seven Kingdoms_

_(Come home for our name day, all right? I learned a new trick with the sword! I can’t wait to show you!_ _—Aegon)_

 _(I wrote a new song, and Rhaenyra said it was good, and we played it for the smallfolk. Mother wanted me to play it in the coming tourney. I’ll play it for you when you arrive._ _—Alaena)_

****

_Rhaena,_

_Maester Tarly is getting a headache from all the comings and goings of our siblings’ letters. Grandmother herself wasn’t able to send an important missive to the lords of the Reach because all the ravens were out on commission. I am only able to send this one because Aegon succeeded in training a pigeon as carrier. A **pigeon** , sister. _

_Send word to Lord Bran that we need more ravens. They seem to be congregating in the North still._

_(Personally, I’m at a loss as to how you all managed to use up an entire rookery’s worth of ravens. That’s a new record.)_

_Rhaenyra_

_Princess of the Seven Kingdoms_

_(I enclosed the recipe I made for a new type of pie. I’m sure Jeyne can follow the instructions, just give her the necessary ingredients. I call it blackberry pie.)_

 

****

 

_Rhaenyra,_

_Did you perchance name it blackberry pie because blackberry is the main ingredient?_

_Rhaena_

_Dragon of the Wall_

_(It’s delicious, by the way. We had trouble finding nonpoisonous blackberries up here, but we managed.)_

 

****

 

_Rhaena,_

_Sometimes I wish you never asked to be fostered in Castle Black (!!!) just so I can try and break your thick skull with Alaena’s lyre. Or perhaps I will poison you myself._

_Rhaenyra_

_Princess of the Seven Kingdoms_

****

 

_Rhaenyra,_

_You would never break Alaena’s heart like that, dear sister. You know how much she cares for that lyre. And I’m pretty sure you’ll be the first to cry were I to die._

_Rhaena_

_Dragon of the Wall_

 

****

 

_Rhaena,_

_Aemon has expressed his wish to follow in your footsteps when the time comes. Daeron won’t let him do it alone. I wish you good fortune in controlling those two in the future_ _—they’re worse than you were at that age, let me tell you, and **that** should tell you something._

_Clarke Targaryen_

_Queen of the Seven Kingdoms_

( _I’m so proud of the work you are doing._ )

( _And would you please stop talking about your death?_ _You’re almost as bad as your mother. Why do you always worry me so?_ )

( _I’m really **proud** of you, Rhaena._ )

 

****

 

Rhaena smiled when Saera toddled over to her, leaving behind Lucerion and Alyse sleeping tangled in the blankets.

Saera was wearing a confused little frown, and Rhaena wondered if this was how their mother looked when she was younger, a child in Essos. _Perhaps. They have the same hair and eyes, after all._

“Hi, little sister,” Rhaena greeted fondly when Saera tugged at her hand. She crouched down so that they were eye to eye.

“Will you lie to me?”

Rhaena started at the question. Whatever she was expecting, it surely wasn’t that. “Pardon?”

“Aerion and Aegon and Aemon were saying things and I don’t believe them. They’re lying.” Saera looked so upset, her trembling lips in a pout, and her familiar green eyes were shining, and _oh Seven, please don’t cry._

“Oh, Saera,” Rhaena soothed, cupping her cheek affectionately, heart clenching at Saera’s little sniffles, “I won’t lie to you, all right?”

“You promise?” Saera asked brokenly.

Rhaena nodded sagely, reminding herself to admonish their brothers later. _They should know better by now, honestly._ “I promise. And I never break my promises, you know that right?”

Saera still looked reluctant, but she answered, “Yes.”

“Then trust me,” Rhaena said. “Now, what’s bothering you so?”

“I was trying to draw our family,” Saera began, “and I was putting our names. I wrote ‘Leks’ for Mother, because that’s what Mama calls her, and . . . and . . .” Saera’s lips wobbled again, on the verge of tears.

Rhaena smiled encouragingly, rubbing comforting circles on Saera’s back. “It’s all right, Saera, it’s all right,” she repeatedly murmured in calming tones.

“I-I wrote ‘my love’ for Mama,” Saera then continued, glaring at the floor, and Rhaena blinked at the statement, “but . . . Aerion . . .  he saw, and he laughed at me, and he took my pa-archment”—she hiccupped, and Rhaena resisted the urge to stomp out screaming for the little cretin—“and he showed it to Aegon and Aemon too, and they laughed at me as well.”

Rhaena knew where this was going. “Did they tell you why they laughed?”

“They said Mama’s name is not ‘my love.’”

“Ah.” Rhaena sighed. “Did you ask Mama about it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I want you to tell me first.” Saera tilted her chin up meekly, but she meets Rhaena’s gaze, resolute. “Is Mama’s name really Clarke?”

Rhaena took a deep breath and released it in a long exhale. “Yes,” she replied, as kindly as she could.

Saera suppressed a gasp, though she wasn’t entirely successful. She glared at the floor again, biting her lip.

“Why did you think Mama’s name is ‘my love,’ Saera?” Rhaena then asked. She ran her hands gently through Saera’s brown curls while patiently waiting for her response.

When she did respond, Saera’s voice was smaller than ever. “Because that’s what Mother always calls her in mealtimes and playtimes and when in court. Every time. I don’t understand how that can’t be Mama’s name.”

Rhaena thought for a moment how to best explain their parents’ commitment to each other to a little girl. She never thought she’d be the one to do it, in any case. “Do you remember when Jacaerys told you that we call our mothers ‘Mama’ and ‘Mother,’ and how other people have their own mothers that they call like that as well?” she finally asked. She waited until Saera nodded before continuing. “Well, it’s kind of like that. Except, Mother calls Mama ‘my love’ because they’re wife and wife, and they are bonded for eternity. It’s an expression of her devotion. Or, like how I call you and Rhaenyra and Alaena and Alyse ‘little sister,’ but I can’t call other people’s little sisters that, you know? Because they’re not _my_ own little sisters.”

Saera fell quiet, thinking this through, and Rhaena watched her make sense of the information. They were silent for a minute, until Saera at last nodded. “So it’s like when Aegon called Lady Myriame ‘sweet rose’ though that’s not her name?”

Rhaena blinked at her again. “I-yes. Like that, Saera.” She stood up, patting Saera’s head, feeling a furious throbbing in her skull. “Stay and rest here, little sister,” she then bid her, exerting effort to sound amiable.

Saera scuttled off and took her place beside Alyse, and Rhaena watched them until three even breathing patterns resounded in the room. Then turning around, she growled under her breath, “I’m going to _kill_ those boys.”

 

****

 

 _Queen Alexandria, the First of Her Name_ _—known as the Commander of the Blood and the Stallion Who Mounts the World—ushered in the Golden Dragon Era. The realm had not seen so many living blood royals since the Dance of Dragons, but unlike those olden times, Alexandria I’s reign was filled with prosperity and contentment._

_Her queen, Clarke of House Connington, proved to be her match in all respects, and they shared a long, blissful union. They had thirteen children, all of whom came to be mighty dragons that left their own significant marks in history._

_It was said that the relationship between the ruling monarchs was so healthy and that because of this, the children, exposed to such loving parents, grew up to be particularly well-adjusted individuals. The peace of the Targaryen household had never been as apparent as it was in Alexandria I’s time; the children never held contempt for each other, understanding was instilled in their minds early on, and the queens took the time to always be there for whatever milestones came to their lives._

_Alexandria I is Queen Clarke’s great and only love, and she is Alexandria I’s._

_It was fact never refuted, never questioned, for anyone who had ever spent time with the two of them would have seen that their hearts beat as one._

 

 _—The Ancient and Glorious Line of Dragons_ (Jack Woodson, 2015 GDE)

 

* * *

 

[1] Today, the Night’s Watch has bases across Westeros, though its command center remains at Castle Black.

[2] The painting, along with Princess Rhaena’s other works of art, is displayed in the Dragonfort (formerly the Nightfort), a Night’s Watch castle along the Wall. You can view it on [www.TheDragonfortWatch.gov/museum/TargaryenArt](http://www.TheDragonfortWatch.gov/museum/TargaryenArt).

[3] Scores of Princess Alaena’s melodies survive to this day; many became folk songs and inspired love songs, and some even became origins for sacred hymns. A number of her compositions have been revived as rock ballads by Visenya and the Dragon Tattoo in the album _Dear Love_. The single “Fire and Blood” stayed in Crownlands’ Top 10 Hits for nine consecutive months after its release.

[4] This anecdote appeared in journals belonging to Jacaerys, Rhaenyra, and Alaena, and even Prince Lucerys, Aerion’s son. The various agreeing sources lend it verity.

[5] The Dragonshield evolved into the special unit it is today, dedicated to protecting the chief of state. For a full history, go to [www.Dragonshield.gov/history](http://www.Dragonshield.gov/history).

[6] Many Snows alive today can trace their lineage to Prince Aemon. Check [www.WesterosGenealogy.gov](http://www.WesterosGenealogy.gov) for more details.

[7] Prince Lucerion’s system was known to be the first structure of Westeros Marines, and the organisation credits him as their first naval commander. The comprehensive history of the organisation can be downloaded from [www.WesterosMarines.gov/LucerionsFleet](http://www.WesterosMarines.gov/LucerionsFleet).  

[8] The anthology of Princess Alyse’s works, _Of Love, War, and Peace_ , is published in five volumes.

[9] The Royal Institute of the Arts, the first art school in Westeros, stands to this day.

[10] Princess Daena’s work in Essos fortified Queen Daenerys’s rule. Westeros’s trade relations with Yi Ti have not been severed since then.

[11] Prince Rhaegar is known as the Father of Education, since it was he who introduced the first school open to the public. King’s Landing University is the second oldest academic institution in the world, next only to the Old Citadel itself.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stuff are based on how the info regarding Jacaerys I’s kin is presented in _The World of Ice and Fire_. Plus some creative license shit. LOL.  
>  (No one’s got gold hair and green eyes. Fuck genetics. I don’t want them to look like Lannisters. I’m bitter af. I’m still not over Ice the Greatsword.)  
> (ALSO the Dragonshield is kinda like the Secret Service/MI6 because I want it to be.)


	7. Epilogue II: Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Blue eyes meet green, and it’s like the world has stopped spinning._

 

**2015 GDE**

**Dragonstone**

The grounds of Dragonstone, both the castle and the eponymous island itself, have been a historical landmark and museum since the last of the dragons died out—this time for good.

King Lucerys IV Targaryen, the Wise, left the kingdom to his son Prince Aemond, who then paved the way for a new type of government that has since revolutionized the world.

Lexa belongs to Prince Aemond’s line, and though the Targaryens have given up their monarchy for a parliamentary rule, they still hold sway in the political arena, and they still have ownership over Dragonstone—which is the only reason Lexa is allowed to take her girlfriend to a private tour of the royal keep and its grounds.

“Are you sure this is okay?” Clarke asks as she watches Lexa open the large, imposing doors using a set of old keys engraved with Valyrian runes.

Lexa glances at her, an eyebrow raised. “You’re only asking me that _now_?”

“Well,” Clarke begins, turning her head up to look at the old citadel filled with the stone grotesques, “I never really stopped to think of how it would feel to _actually_ step into the Targaryen’s old seat of power, you know?” She has her arms crossed, trying to ward off the sensation of being watched by the hundreds of sculpted eyes surrounding them.

The very air of Dragonstone is thick with its history, with the stories of the mighty dragonlords, and Clarke can almost believe that what she is breathing in is steam from Dragonmont—an impossibility, since the volcano has been inactive for a thousand years.

“I grew up here, Clarke. Of course I’m allowed my guests,” Lexa answers as she pushes the door open and ushers Clarke in.

“Yeah, but—” Her statement cuts off when she’s greeted by a particular statue of a griffin mid-roar, its eyes glinting blue, made of sapphire.

“But what?” Lexa turns, and she smiles when she sees what has caught Clarke’s attention. “Oh, look. It’s you.”

At that Clarke tears her gaze away to level Lexa with a glare. “Shut up.”

“You even have the same scowl. Oh, and the same colour of eyes.” Lexa throws an arm around Clarke’s shoulders, grin widening. “I _knew_ you looked familiar when I first met you.”

Clarke lets out an exasperated sigh.

 

****

 

_Blue eyes meet green, and it’s like the world has stopped spinning._

_“You.”_

_“You.”_

 

****

 

“Whoa.” Clarke’s awed exhalation is loud in the silence of the keep, its staff and caretakers not yet in. Her artist’s eyes hungrily take in the details of the Great Hall—its doors are set in a huge dragon’s mouth, and passing through it is akin to entering the belly of the beast.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” Lexa smiles at the look of pure marvel in Clarke’s eyes.

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees. She reaches for Lexa’s hand, anchoring herself in this ancient space, heavy with the spirits and ghosts of the past. “Your ancestors were very attached to your House’s sigil.”

“That’s truer than you’d think.” Lexa chuckles, the sound low, as if she too does not want to disturb the thick quiet. She laces their fingers more comfortably together, taking solace as much as she is giving it. “You haven’t seen the kitchens yet. It’s shaped like a curled-up dragon, and the smoke from the fires are expelled through its nostrils.”

“How did they manage to form the stones so perfectly?”

“No one’s sure. They say it was Old Valyrian magic, from before the Doom. It’s why Dragonstone’s structural design is so different from the rest of Westeros’s.” Lexa presses her other hand on a black wall. “‘Wrought from the stone of hells,’ the legends say.”

“Do you believe?” Clarke asks.

Lexa shrugs, a sort of shadow falling over her eyes. “Sometimes, it’s difficult not to.”

 

****

 

Lexa takes Clarke into rooms and halls corded off from the public, private spaces meant only for Targaryen descendants. A huge bed with black and red sheets is in the largest chambers, once belonging to the prince or princess of Dragonstone.

Clarke steps deeper into the room, a sense of belonging inexplicably settling over her. It’s as if the stones are whispering words that are a long time coming.

_Finally. Welcome home._

“This used to be your namesake’s room.”

“And yours,” Lexa says. “The then-princess Clarke gave birth to Jacaerys and Rhaena on that very bed.”

“Lexa and Clarke Targaryen had sex on that very bed, I think you mean.”

Lexa laughs out loud, and just like that, the tension Clarke feels tingling on her skin fritters away. “That too.” She wiggles her eyebrows at Clarke, smirking. “Wanna honour my family’s tradition?”

Clarke covers her mouth with a hand, trying not to giggle. “That was terrible.”

“Worth a try, though.”

 

****

 

They make their way up the winding paths of the Stone Drum, at the top of which is the Chamber of the Painted Table.

 _The ghosts linger here as well_ , Clarke thinks, _even more so than the other rooms of the keep_. The air is thicker here too—ironic, since the room has four tall windows overlooking the north, east, south, and west, allowing plenty of light to get in.

The large table dominates the space, and Clarke can almost taste the solemnity the occupants of the raised seat of Dragonstone would have felt, so long ago.

Lexa casually strides to the seat and takes it with the confidence inherited from her ancestors, and she looks at Clarke, green eyes twinkling. “Come on, my lady,” she says, patting her lap.

Clarke huffs, but Lexa merely grins, and so she follows, carefully taking the steps up and settling herself on Lexa’s thighs. Lexa winds her arms securely around Clarke, and she rests her chin on Clarke’s shoulder.

Clarke’s eyes trail over the old map, and it daunts her, seeing the whole of Westeros laid out before her gaze. She wonders how Aegon the Conqueror managed to not be overwhelmed.

 _Maybe it’s a dragonlord thing_.

“These would have all been yours,” she muses.

“Yes,” Lexa replies, softly but surely, “and they would have been yours too. You’re my girlfriend, so, you know, you would have your claim.”

Warmth blooms within Clarke’s bones. “Doubtful. Consorts can’t take claims.”

“You’ll never be just a consort, Clarke.” Lexa’s arms tighten their hold, and Clarke’s blood thrums in her veins. “You’re made to be a queen. And you would have been mine.”

 

****

 

“Do you think I would have called you ‘Your Grace’?”

Lexa sends her a skeptical look. “No. You would have eschewed propriety and just addressed me as ‘dragonlord’ or something.”

“Okay, first of all, rude, and second of all, yeah, probably.”

 

****

 

Murals and paintings made by Queen Clarke the Golden are locked and vigilantly protected in the Sea Dragon Tower, in a room especially repurposed as an art gallery. Lexa lets Clarke take her time in studying the queen’s style, analyze each brushstroke, and examine every dip of paint.

The largest painting spans half a wall, and in it depicted are the queens themselves and their entire brood of children.  

“Thirteen.” Clarke shakes her head, gaze drawn to the babes cradled in the queen’s arms—their youngest twins. “How did she survive pushing _thirteen_ dragons out of her body?”

“I read somewhere that Jahaerys and Alysanne had thirteen children too, but only nine made it to adulthood,” Lexa offers. “Maybe she’s just making a point.”

“What point would that be?” Clarke gestures to the painting as a whole. “‘Hey, my womb is better than yours’?”

“Oh my gods”—Lexa laughs—“don’t disrespect the dead, Clarke.”

“It’s been _millennia_ , Lexa. I’m pretty sure they’re over it.”

 

****

 

“You know, you kinda look like her,” Lexa remarks, eyes tracing the image with something like reverence.

Clarke stares at the queen.

 

( _Hello_ , her blue painted eyes seem to say, _it’s been so long_.)

 

****

 

“Lexa?”

“Yeah?”

Clarke swallows audibly, and when Lexa turns to look, she sees that Clarke is serious, pensive. “You kinda look like _her_ too.”

 

****

 

“The followers of the Lord of Light . . . they believe in reincarnation, right?”

“Only in some cases,” Lexa answers. “Their hero, for instance. The Azor Ahai.”

“But . . .” Clarke hesitates, and then she asks an earlier question. “Do _you_ believe?”

Lexa repeats an earlier answer. “Sometimes,” she says, this time meeting Clarke’s eyes, “it’s difficult not to.”

 

****

 

_Blue eyes get lost in green._

_Green eyes drown in blue._

_“You.”_

_“You.”_

 

****

 

 

An end.

 

 

****

 

A beginning.

 

****

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a tale as old as time.
> 
> PS To anyone waiting around for Rise of New Valyria, sorry for the hold up. I fully intended to write that one but I ended up making two fooking epilogues. I lied about this week’s update. Sue me.
> 
> PPS Actually, don’t. I can’t afford my dinner, let alone a lawyer.

**Author's Note:**

> asdfghjkl
> 
> Yell at me or something at [A Blank Canvas](http://agentjoannemills.tumblr.com/ask) or [@eyyogg](https://twitter.com/eyyogg). Honestly, I probably deserve the yelling.  
> Feedback is much appreciated; feelings fuel everything. :))  
> (PS a [thing](https://www.instagram.com/p/BMTHPMgAx32/?taken-by=joampolin) i made)
> 
> If you liked what you read and if it isn’t too much trouble, you can buy me coffee through [my ko-fi page](https://ko-fi.com/joampolin). Your contribution will be very much appreciated and will be sure to help me write another day with my pets. :))
> 
> Ste yuj, fam.


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